The Stranger
by mousers mary
Summary: Dan and Rorschach have an awkward chance encounter


strang·er

strang·er [stráynjər]

(plural strang·ers)

n

1. unfamiliar person: somebody whom somebody else does not know

2. newcomer: somebody who is new to a place

3. outsider: somebody who does not belong to a specific organization or group

4. visitor or guest: somebody who does not live in a specific house or community but is a visitor or guest

5. person unaccustomed to something: somebody who is not familiar or acquainted with a particular thing

Being a stranger to hard physical work, he found the job exhausting.

6. alienated person: somebody who has become distanced or alienated from somebody or something

She is a stranger to her former colleagues.

7. person not privy to transaction: somebody who is neither privy nor party to a transaction

***

It's such a pleasant spring afternoon you almost don't notice it when it happens. It could be the light breeze, or it could be a slight disruption in the airflow as another body passes past you on the busy city street. It's such a subtle thing when the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand and your skin breaks out into gooseflesh, but you don't miss it this time. You don't ignore it. Your senses are telling you _there's someone watching you. There's someone following you._ You think of the way in which a person never forgets how to ride a bicycle once the skill is acquired. (And you cringe a bit at the cliché, obvious and over used, but now isn't the best time to worry about that.) Maybe it's muscle-memory or a hard-wiring in the brain, either way you're pleasantly surprised to find even after all the years, all the neglect, the old fight instincts aren't something that has atrophied away.

You duck around the corner into the next alleyway and stand with your back to the wall; a perfect vantage point for an ambush. You become just another shape, another shadow among the litter and metal trash barrels. You feel shaky and your heart is pounding. Maybe it's the excitement, and maybe it's the rush of adrenaline, but whatever it is, it isn't fear.

While you wait, you try to imagine things from the perspective of your stalker. You are sure you look the perfect victim for a mugging; middle aged and overweight, clad in the uniform of the milquetoast. (And you've never before considered your civilian appearance to be another disguise, but right now in this moment, it presents a tactical advantage, and you know you would be remiss not to employ it.)

The waiting stretches out until it becomes plain your stalker hasn't taken the bait. You decide on a new course of action, and leave your perch there in the alley; make your way onto the busy city street. You move furtively but it only takes a moment before you spot your perpetrator among the crowd, now openly staring.

Time seems to slow down in the moment you make eye contact with the stranger. But this space becomes an asset, gives you the chance to study your predator, study your prey. His face holds such disdain. His harsh eyes pierce through you and he holds his mouth in such a sharp line it could cut you, and you wonder now if your stalker has motives other than a simple mugging. Then you see it in his shoulders, and you see it in his stance. And you don't recognize the man's face but you recognize the man's posture, and before you know it, the distance between you has been bridged, and he is now studying you from where you stand.

"Noticed you following me," the man says. And you don't recognize the voice, it isn't the nails and sandpaper you expected, but you know your instincts are right on this.

"And I noticed you watching me," you say.

You wait for a reply that doesn't come, and silence stretches out until it becomes something tangible, something weighty.

Your relax your shoulders when you realize just how much tension you have been storing there, and you notice your opponent quirks his lips in what you choose to interpret as a smile.

You reach out; place your hand on his shoulder. There's a falsity in the forced gesture of camaraderie, and you wonder if you've overstepped your bounds.

You sheepishly withdraw your hand and mutter a quiet, "_sorry_."

"Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" you say, in what you hope is an adequate attempt at covering over your faux pas.

"I don't need your pity," he says, too quickly, as if it were a pre-programmed response.

"Who said anything about pity," you say, with just a touch of playfulness. "Just two old friends catching up."

He doesn't speak for a long moment. When he does, it's almost too quiet to hear. "You don't know me."

"Yeah," you say. All your good humor drained away at the truth of that.

You're fairly sure you've blown it, the moment having apparently been more delicate than you expected, feathery ash disintegrating at the slightest touch.

The space between you both grows heavy with the weight of the unspoken. He waits and the distance becomes uncomfortable. Finally, he grows tired of waiting on you, or just tired of you. He begins to walk off.

"Wait. Just wait," you say, and you try to mask the defeat in your voice, but knowing how to exist behind a mask isn't one of your indelible abilities. _That_ is something you _have_ forgotten.

He pauses to hear what you have to say, but doesn't turn around.

"Can we start over?"

He turns and looks at you blank faced as ever.

"Hi," you start, feeling self-conscious. "I'm Dan." You grin broadly, because this is more than the pretense of an introduction. There is a test here as well.

He takes your proffered hand, grip as firm as you expected, as you remembered, but says nothing.

***

The diner is busy enough, is loud enough among the clanking silverware and din of people engaged in conversation to not worry about nosy ears and prying eyes, but you decide discretion is the better part of valor and so you request a booth in a more secluded section toward the back.

Your new friend still hasn't introduced himself, and you're fairly sure no such introduction will be forthcoming, but it isn't any more and it isn't any less than what you'd already expect.

You absently watch the harried waitress move about the restaurant. It seems it may be a while before she will have the chance to make her way to your table between the demanding customers yelling for her attention here and there, to the spills and messes she must contend with. This is fine with you though, giving you some time and space to attempt to engage your companion.

"So, uh, I'll bet you never expected this to happen, huh," you say. You can feel that playfulness creeping in again, because it is funny, it is strange to find yourselves here, after all these years.

He peers over the top of the menu he'd been studying. He looks at you for a long moment, as if really seeing you for the first time. You can't help but wonder what he sees.

"There are many things I never expected to happen," he says. It might a rebuke, or it may be feigned indifference, but they way in which he simply returns to studying the menu suggests to you there maybe something else hidden just under those words.

You find yourself mindlessly tapping your fingers on the table. Nervous. You take a long moment before you speak. "You're talking about, you know, my quitting, right?"

This has gotten his attention. He folds the menu closed and places it on the edge of the table, never removing his eyes from you.

"Okay, so there is this huge unresolved…thing between us," you begin. "Right?" You can feel heat rising to your face, making you feel hot. You lean forward and keep your voice low. He leans more into the seat back and folds his arms. Settling in. "But there's no way you're sitting there harboring resentment about the whole thing when it was…"

"Offered to buy me coffee," he interrupts, voice filled with all the gravel you remember. At least that's something familiar. "Only reason I agreed to come."

(_When it was what_? you think. _If he hadn't cut you off. When it was out of your hands? When it wasn't _your _fault that damn legislation passed? When your partnership simply dissolved away, leaving you standing there alone, before you even realized it?_ _When the whole thing changed from a schoolboy fantasy to riots and protests? When it stopped being _fun?)

"Fine," you say, folding your arms. You know you sound petty, and you know you sound petulant, but it doesn't matter now.

The waitress's arrival to take your orders has put an end to the conversation anyway.

You can't convince the other man to order anything more than coffee, though you've offered to fit the bill. You had been looking forward to the large breakfast you'd chosen from the menu, but eating a full meal while your companion only takes coffee sets up an uncomfortably lopsided dynamic. _Just like old times, _you think bitterly.

*

You both stand just outside the door to the diner, unsure what the next step should be.

"Thank you. For the coffee," he says.

"Sure."

You think about asking him to your place until you realize how that sounds. _Though I guess this _has_ been a bad date, _you think.

"Okay, well. Don't be a stranger," you say instead.

*

When you arrive back at the house, the air feels stale and stifling. Opening windows lets in fresh air, but it does nothing to alleviate the heaviness.

There is a rapping at the door, and you go to answer it.

Mr. Sociable, bad-date extraordinaire stands on the steps. Only now, he wears Rorschach's clothing, minus the mask. You must be wearing a confused expression, as he is quick to speak.

"You said, _don't be a stranger," _he offers as explanation.

"I did," you agree.

You fully expect a smart-assed answer such as _I'm Rorschach_, but instead he gives you a name. You're not sure if you believe the sincerity of it, though. The name seems ill fitted, and maybe it's because you only see Rorschach before you, or maybe it's because he's never allowed anything of himself in all your years of partnership, or maybe it's because you still aren't sure if he trusts you after years of estrangement, but whatever the reason, it doesn't matter right now. What matters is inviting the man in your home through the front door, and you think that just might be a first.

"This doesn't mean you're off the hook, though," you say, lightheartedly.

"Nor you," he says.

You close the door behind him, and you're not sure what to expect, but whatever happens, it's going to be _interesting._

_***_

_edited to fix a typo and grammar mistake_


End file.
